


holding my breath for you

by engmaresh



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Between Seasons/Series, Canon-Typical Offensive Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017, M/M, Public Sex, post s04e11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/pseuds/engmaresh
Summary: After his spectacular coming out at The Alibi, Mickey's prepared for some things to change.Some things do, some things don't, and others end up surprising him.





	holding my breath for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yourenotfree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourenotfree/gifts).



> This is for Lauren.
> 
> The prompt was "Others finding out about Gallavich."  
> This fic takes place during that magical time between seasons 4 and 5, the one we wish had gone on forever.

****Ian has migrated from the bed to the couch, but he still looks slightly out of it when Mickey runs a hand through his greasy hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Ay, I gotta go out,” he says. “Back soon.”

Ian’s response is a squint and a soft, “Where?”

“Gotta collect from some assholes who owe me money,” Mickey tells him. “Usual. Take about an hour, two tops.”

“‘Kay,” says Ian, giving him a thumbs up and a smile. The daze seems to lift a little, but then he slumps sideways into the couch and closes his eyes. Back to sleep again, it seems.

“Right,” Mickey mutters under his breath, and gnaws at his thumbnail nervously. He doesn’t want to leave Ian alone in the house, but he can’t just let the money go. He needs it, and he needs it now, and there isn’t anyone else who can do the job for him, what with his father and uncle back in prison and Iggy the fuck knows where.

Ah shit. He’ll make it fast. An hour. Ian’ll probably stay this way the whole time anyway. And he’s been getting better, getting out of bed, eating without having to be prompted, shuffling over to Mickey’s side of the bed at night and pressing his sweaty body against Mickey’s back. He can be left alone for an hour.

Mickey wraps his scarf around his neck as he clatters down the porch steps, and in his haste and distraction misses the last, forcing him to take a leap to the ground to avoid landing flat on his ass. What a great fucking start. He hopes to hell Jesse doesn’t give him any trouble because just what he fucking needs.

Jesse is one of the Milkovich’s regulars. He’s tall, taller than Ian, which Mickey hates, because he has to fucking crane his neck to look at the guy, but it helps that the dude’s a strung out junkie, with an addict’s wasted frame and the strength of a child. Besides, Mickey’s got the Milkovich name to back him up. But there’s a crawling feeling in his gut that’s usually not there when he’s out to collect, especially when he’s out to collect from pathetic shitheads like Jesse. This is the first time he’s out “on business” since the night he came out, shouting to the entire street how much he loves cock. It’d felt good at the time, felt right. Now it just feels like the stupidest shit he’s ever done. Signing his own death warrant. For two days, Jesse has been a no-show, and that little shit knows better than to fuck with Mickey. Maybe now that he knows what Mickey really is, he doesn’t care anymore. Think he’ll get away with it because the faggot’s too weak to come after him, not without the backing of Terry Milkovich. Well, when Mickey finds him he’s going to prove him fucking wrong.

The addict’s been buying from the Milkoviches long enough that Mickey knows pretty much all of his hideouts, but he still has to turn out a dumpster and search through an entire den before he finds Jesse smoking a joint on the porch steps of an abandoned house. “Oh hey, Mick,” he says as Mickey storms up to him.

“Where’s my money, shithead,” Mickey grinds out, storming up the stairs and grabbing Jesse by the collar of his filthy shirt. “You’re late.” He gives the lanky man a good shake. “Y’know what happens when you’re late.”

The way Jesse grins at him, slow and languid and not at all scared tells him the guy’s not all there. “Hey, Mick,” he drawls, pawing at Mickey’s shoulder with a filthy hand. “Chill.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to chill,” Mickey snaps, pushing the man away hard enough that his head bounces off the top stair. Not that it seems to faze Jesse. In fact, the fucker even seems to get off on it from the way he arches his back and tries to grind up against Mickey’s leg. He’s forced to take a leap back, and almost falls off the porch steps again.

“What the fuck, you pervert,” he snarls, giving Jesse a savage kick in the shin. That hurts despite the high apparently, because Jesse curls up with a whine, the action sending him sliding down the stairs onto the ground.

“Fuck!” he groans. “Thought you’d like that shit.”

Mickey freezes. It feels like his heart has plunged straight through his ribcage down into his gut. “What the fuck d’you say?”

Jesse pained grin has an edge to it this time. “Hey, all Southside knows by now. You like dick. Good for you. So I’m thinking we could come to an arrangement. I could, y’know…” He lets his eyes travelling meaningfully down to Mickey’s crotch and pokes his tongue into his cheek.

Mickey’s breath leaves him in an explosive laugh. “A blowjob? You’re fucking offering me a blowjob instead of the money you owe me?”

Jesse’s grin sours.

“Listen shithead,” Mickey says, and this time he’s the one grinning. “You could suck me off every day for the rest of your sad, pathetic life and it wouldn’t add up to what you owe me. So gimme the cash, now, and maybe I won’t blow a hole in you and fuck that instead.” And he pulls out the gun he’d tucked in his waistband before leaving.

All drugged humor leaves Jesse’s face at the sight of the piece, and he scrambles up the stairs and limps into the house. Mickey follows slowly, wary that the junkie might try to climb out the window to escape but also keeping an eye out for a possible ambush.

It seems however that Jesse had put all his faith in his offer for sexual favors, since Mickey ends up with a crumpled wad of cash thrown at his face, and a “Go fuck yourself, faggot.”

So Mickey kicks him in the balls for good measure, and leaves the junkie whining on the grimy floor. He briefly considers shooting him for good measure, but Jesse’s not worth the effort. With any luck, he’ll overdose over the weekend. Fuck him and fuck coming out though. If a shitstain like Jesse thinks he can mouth off to Mickey, he dreads to think what the rest of the Milkovich “business partners” might have to say when the time comes. Maybe he should have killed that sonnuvabitch, just for the message it would send. No one’s going to fuck with him.

But he doesn’t turn around, just thrusts his fists in his pockets and stomps all the way back to the Milkovich house.

“Hey,” says Ian when Mickey bursts through the door, and it catches him so off guard that any anger at Jesse evaporates. Ian’s upright, wearing different clothes. He’s showered too, because his hair is damp and Mickey can smell that flowery shit Svetlana uses wafting through the entire house.

He wants to ask “How are you feeling?” but he says, “You’re finally up, you lazy shit.”

Ian chuckles. He still looks tired as hell, but he’s up, he’s clean and that’s good enough for Mickey. “What happened?” he asks, coming closer, bare toes curling on the cold linoleum floor.

“It’s nothing,” Mickey says. He dumps his coat and scarf on the rack and – Ian’s really warm. It could be from the shower, or it could be because Mickey’s just come in from the cold. He buries his nose in Ian’s neck and inhales deeply. In the grand scheme of today, Jesse really is nothing. He can go fuck himself.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” says Kevin one day when Mickey’s over at the Alibi, while Svet’s up in makeshift brothel with her girls, doing whatever hooker-madam shit she does. Clients go up and pay up, that’s the main thing.

“Ay,” Mickey says back cautiously, peering at Kevin the rim of his beer. Kevin’s...they’re not friends, fuck no. And while Mickey decided to let that issue with the money blow over–too much on his plate, what with the coming out, and Ian getting sick, and then Kevin’s wife had mentioned something about paying for the stuff that got smashed during the brawl. Well, Kevin hadn’t come after Mickey for that, so eye-for-an-eye or however that shit goes. Kevin’s okay on a good day and a complete fuckwit on a bad one, but at the moment he seems to have Mickey’s back so, well, Mickey can deal with that.

“How’s Ian?” Kevin asks, polishing a glass with a stained rag.

Mickey grunts, shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know why the fuck Kevin bothers asking. He’s become intimately and annoyed-ly familiar with the Gallagher gossip chain: basically a Gallagher finds out and it travels from Gallagher to Gallagher until it reaches Fiona, who then tells Kevin’s wife–what’s her name, Vee?–and she tells Kevin who then tells the entire fucking world.

“Heard he’s doing better,” Kevin continues, unfazed by the lack of response. “Vee told me he’s staying over at the Gallagher house today.” He gives Mickey a look. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Just shut the fuck up,” Mickey grits through his teeth. He takes a deep draft of beer. Ian hadn’t wanted to go and Mickey hadn’t liked the idea either but Fiona had managed to strongarm them both into it. She probably plans to spend the whole day nagging Ian to go to the doctor. They’re both stubborn as fuck, and if Mickey’d had a less healthy instinct for survival he’d have stayed around to watch the inevitable showdown, but he’s not an idiot, and besides he’s had his fill of Gallaghers for a while. Except Ian, but well, Ian’s Ian.

“So,” Kevin says and leans conspiratorially close, way too fucking close for Mickey’s tastes, who leans back and takes his beer with him. “What’s your favorite position?”

Mickey almost drops the beer, fumbles for it, and ends slopping what’s left of it down his shirt. “The fuck you say?” he hisses, staring at Kevin like he’s gone mad.

“Hey, I thought we were friends right?”

“That–”

“Look,” Kevin continues mercilessly. “Don’t let anyone give you shit over that. Lemme tell you something. Sometimes Vee and I, well she gets out the strap-on and hey, I don’t mind, and it even the first time it didn’t hurt quite as much as I’d expected and yanno, it was actually rather–”

Mickey doesn’t hear the rest of it. There are times for fists and fighting, and times for retreating and he recognizes this as the latter. He’s out the Alibi and jogging down the road in seconds, determined to put as much space between him and Kevin as possible. Just because he’s–fuck, just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he wants to know what kind of gay, kinky shit other people get up to, jesus fuck, where does Kevin get off with this shit. He needs a drink. He needs ten, but the Alibi’s the only place he knows he’ll get served without getting beat up (again). Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck Kevin.

Later, as he’s watching Ian messily eat cornflakes and watch Spongebob, he finds himself thinking about that damn conversation again, about Kevin taking it up the ass from his wife. It’s different, it’s always different, straight people always fucking think it’s comparable somehow and Kevin’s a fucking pussy anyway so it’s really no surprise.

But he didn’t have to tell Mickey.

A toe poke from Ian pulls him from his thoughts. “Who you thinking of killing?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Kevin’s a freak,” he says.

Ian laughs. “Yeah, we all know that.”

 

* * *

 

 Iggy comes home on a Thursday, when Mickey and Ian are sitting (cuddling) on the couch. He bursts through the door and smacks into the wall, and as Mickey scrambles to untangle himself from Ian’s long-ass legs and grab his piece at the same time, Iggy frames his hands around his mouth and hollers, “GAAAAAAAYYYYY!”

“Fucksake,” Ian mutters, pushing Mickey away with his foot and getting to his feet while Mickey’s trying to figure out whether to point the gun at his brother or not.

Iggy solves the dilemma for him by walking straight into kitchen and rummaging through the cupboards. “Got any food in this place?”

“There’s–” Ian starts, then frowns when Iggy unearths a box of cornflakes. “Those are mine.”

“‘S’rent, dude. I’m not the one getting my dick sucked–”

“Ay, shut the fuck up,” Mickey growls.

Iggy turns around, face full of cornflakes, and looks at the gun like he’s surprised to see it. “What’s with the piece, man?” he whines, spraying the floor with damp flakes.

“Get out of my house.”

“I live here too, fuckwit. You think ‘cause you got dad put in the slammer you’re the man of the house now?”

Mickey gestures at the door with his gun. “Y’got anything to say, you get the fuck out.”

Iggy snorts. “Don’t give a fuck who you fuck. Just y’know,” he waves a handful of cornflakes as he retreats into his room. “Don’t fuck on the couch or anything.”

Too fucking bad for Iggy. Mickey and Ian’d already done just that. Several times.

***

Mickey wakes up from a post-sex nap to the smell of weed in the house. Frowning, he rubs sleep from his eyes and pulls on whatever clothes he finds strewn on the floor. Ian should have woken him if he was going to get baked.

Ian’s in the living room, on the couch with Iggy. They don’t seem to hear him, so they must’ve been smoking for a while. He’s about to go grab a beer and join them but then Iggy says, “Hey, I know my brother’s a stupid fucking shit, but he’s family, man. If you hurt him–”

“You’ll what, eat my cornflakes?” says Ian grinning, before stealing the joint right out off Iggy’s mouth, just like he does with Mickey.

“Fuck you, gayboy,” Iggy says and steals it back. “Just ‘cause you’re Mickey’s boy toy–”

Ian punches him in the arm and it turns into a half-baked slug-slap fest before Iggy drops the joint and gets distracted searching for it. It’s basically the gayest shit Mickey’s ever seen in his own home and he’s been getting up to plenty of that on that very couch.

“So, what will you do?” asks Ian, giving Iggy the finger as he climbs back onto the couch.

“Instead of sucking on Mickey’s tiny dick you’ll be sucking on my Glock instead.” He toes the gun he has lying on the table. Ian snorts, but gives Iggy a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Something uncurls in Mickey’s gut, so he announces his presence by cracking open a beer and drinking it down until the feeling is gone.

* * *

 

 Ian is dancing and Mickey watches him. He doesn’t like that Ian’s gone back to the Fairy Tale, but they need the money and Ian insisted on it and there’s no one Mickey knows who’s more stubborn than Ian Fuckhead Gallagher. So he’s here, watching Ian shake his ass in some old pervert’s direction wishing he could punch that sick fuck’s head through his teeth. But life’s never been fucking fair to Mickey.

Being here...it still weirds him the fuck out. The fact that he’s surrounded by men openly touching, kissing, caressing–it’s not anywhere he’d ever expected to be. He’s not even sure if he really wants to be here. Is this what will be expected of him now, now that he’s “out”? This exhibitionism, open-ness. What’s next, dancing in gold shorts on a Pride float? On stage, Ian’s grinding air, making eye contact with someone across the room. Fuck this. Mickey needs a smoke. He heads out.

Stupid angry thoughts occupy his mind as he burns through a cigarette, then another, and another. Ian kissing other men, touching other men, fucking other men. Men who are better than Mickey, smarter men, richer men, more interesting men. This fucking place is full of men who deserve Ian more than Mickey ever could, men who can give him all the shit he wants, men who will hold his hand in public and go to Pride with him, men who aren’t stuck in a shithole in Southside, doomed to–

“You look like I could have fantastic angry sex with you.”

The man who says that leans against the wall next to Mickey. Mickey pushes down the urge to flee or fight, and occupies his hands by lighting up fourth cigarette. He breathes out a stream of smoke between them like it’d act as a buffer or something. But the guy doesn’t go away. Instead he keeps looking at Mickey like he’s hungry or something. Mickey knows that look, but he’s not used to being on the receiving end, not used to it being anyone but Ian looking at him that way. Is he supposed to be flattered? Turned on?

“Quiet type, huh,” the guy continues. He shuffles closer, and gestures to Mickey’s cigarette. “Can I have one?”

Like most men, he’s taller than Mickey. Built, broader shoulders than Ian. But his hair’s dark, as dark as Mickey’s, curling around his ears. His unzipped parka frames purple T-shirt that’s spread tightly over his pecs and Mickey eyes them enviously for a moment as he holds out the pack.

The man ducks his head, and for a moment Mickey thinks he’s going to do something like, what, kiss his hand?–then he pulls back smoothly with cigarette clamped between his lips. The way he looks at Mickey through his long lashes–that’s supposed to be sexy yeah? The urge to get away grows stronger, but then he asks for a light and Mickey’s body seems to develop a mind of its own, raising the lighter as the man ducks his head again, hand curled around the cigarette to shelter the flame. His hair brushes Mickey’s hand.

“New here, huh?” says the guy, exhaling a ring of smoke, that Mickey is absolutely not impressed by. He grunts in reply. He hates that some fucking rando has him pegged so quickly.

Rando-pec-guy doesn’t seem at all turned off by Mickey’s aloofness. “So how ‘bout we find a place, get rid of some of that steam.” He leans closer, smoke trickling from the corner of his mouth. “I’d give you a good fuck–”

His face disappears from Mickey’s personal space as quickly as it’d appeared, replaced by Ian. Fist raised, flushed from exertion or emotion, he looks furious. Pec-guy proves agile, ducks around the punch and quickly hightails it back into the club. Ian doesn’t follow, turns on Mickey instead.

“What the fuck, Mick!”

Ian’s clearly angry, clearly jealous, but Mickey thinks of Ian in the club, dancing for everybody but the guy who’s supposed to be his goddamn boyfriend. “Just talkin’,” he says.

“Yeah?” says Ian. Now he’s the one all up in Mickey’s space. He smells like sweat, smoke and cologne. Other men. His eyeliner has smudged. “‘Bout what?”

Mickey shrugs.

Fuming, Ian takes the cigarette from Mickey’s hands and takes a long drag, mixing smoke with the condensation of his deep, angry breaths. Then he throws the cigarette aside and without warning grabs Mickey by the collar of his parka and slams him up against the wall. His head bounces off the brick, and there’s a metallic aftertaste in the back of his mouth, but it’s chased away by Ian’s tongue, deep, searching. Mickey gives back as good as he gets, snaking his hands under Ian’s jacket to cup his neck and pull him closer.

“What’d he say to you?” Ian growls as he pulls away for breath. He smirks, seeing Mickey lean forward, chasing his mouth. “Tryna make me jealous, Mick?”

“Fuck no,” breathes Mickey, but he grins and Ian takes that as the cue to start attacking his neck and shove his thigh between his legs. Shit, Mickey’s hard as nails, but he doesn’t want to hump Ian’s leg on the side of the road.

Meanwhile Ian’s hands slide down to grab handfuls of Mickey’s ass. He squeezes, and Mickey groans. “Mine.”

“Not fucking here,” he wheezes as Ian’s hand move to his front and fumble with his belt.

“Why not? Let everyone know you’re mine.”

Shitshitshit. This is–the idea is almost appealing and Mickey’s quickly losing hold on any rational thought. With supreme effort he bats Ian’s hands away.

“What the fuck, Mick,” Ian growls, but he takes a step back. Grabs Mickey by the hand and almost drags him around the corner to the back alley of the club. “Good enough for you?”

Mickey turns around and braces himself against the brick wall. “Get on me.”

Ian impatiently undoes Mickey’s jeans and pulls them down to his knees. His fingers are cold and damp but he doesn’t need them much–they’d fucked before coming to the club and the lube on the condom should be enough.

Ian pushes in hard enough to punch the breath out of Mickey. He braces his forearm between his head and the wall to keep his face from slamming into it. “Jesus,” Ian mutters, and thrusts a few times, _slowly_ because he’s a fucking tease. With his free hand, Mickey reaches back, grabs Ian by the waist to increase the pace. 

“No,” says Ian, takes Mickey’s hand and threads his fingers through his, and braces them against the wall. Fine, whatever. Mickey closes his eyes, gives into it, the stretch, the steady push and pull. Ian’s breath puffs against the back of his neck.

“Am I boring you, Mick?”

He’s not even thinking of the Rando-Pec-guy but Mickey says, “Was looking someone who could fuck me hard, not a pussy like you.”

“Yeah?” says Ian, and thrust forward forcefully enough that Mickey’s cheek scrapes against the brick despite his arm. “Hard? Like this?”

“Can’t feel a thing.”

He jerks when Ian graze his teeth over the nape of his neck, up to the sensitive skin behind his ear.

“Really?” says Ian, and Mickey can hear in his voice that smirk that’s always followed by the kind of fuck that leaves his useless for hours after. He shuffles his feet, closes his eyes, braces himself. Sometimes Ian is incredibly predictable. That’s good for Mickey, especially when he wants to get pounded.

Soon each thrust becomes hard enough to push him to his toes. Ian’s weight is heavy against his back, like he’s trying to get under Mickey’s skin, fuse them together. It’s all Mickey can do to push back, suck in air through his open mouth, stop his face from getting scraped to hell on the wall.

Ian’s hand pulls free from his and closes around his dick. The nails of his other hand bite into Mickey’s hip. Ian’s teeth in his shoulder. His dick in his ass, hitting that right spot. All these points of contact, coming together, whiting out the dark behind his eyelids for a moment. Ian comes a few seconds later but he keeps pumping his hips, pushing through the spasmodic clenching of Mickey’s asshole until he reaches back to pinch Ian’s hip to make him stop because he’s starting to get sore.

“Jesus, Mick, you’re perfect,” Ian breathes as he pulls out. His other hand uncurls from Mickey’s hip, starts rubbing circles with his thumb on Mickey’s thigh.

Perfect, yeah. Svet’s going to laugh at his hickeys tomorrow. People at the Alibi will stare. His boyfriend’s cock is gluing itself to his ass with drying cum and he’s starting to get cold. But this, it, Ian, everything for now, is perfect.

  



End file.
